After I had taken off my boots, I removed the icon from my neck and fell before it on my knees. “Why should I die such a death?” I cried. “For three years I have suffered for my country. Is this shameful end to be my reward? Have mercy, Holy Mother! If not for the sake of humble Maria, then for the sake of my destitute old mother and my aged father! Have mercy!” Here I collapsed completely and became hysterical. After a few moments an officer approached me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said: “You are a Russian officer. We are dying for a righteous cause. Be strong and die as it befits an officer to die!” I made a superhuman effort to control myself. The tears stopped. I arose and announced to the guards: “I am ready.” We were led out from the car, all of us in our undergarments. A few hundred feet away was the field of slaughter. There were hundreds upon hundreds of human bodies heaped there. As we approached the place, the figure of Pugatchov, marching about with a triumphant face, came into sight. He was in charge of the firing squad, composed of about one hundred men, some of whom were sailors, others soldiers, and others dressed as Red Guards. We were surrounded and taken toward a slight elevation of ground, and placed in a line with our backs toward the hill. There were corpses behind us, in front of us, to our left, to our right, at our very feet. There were at least a thousand of them. The scene was a horror of horrors. We were suffocated by the poisonous stench. The executioners did not seem to mind it so much. They were used to it. I was placed at the extreme right of the line. Next to me was the old General. There were twenty of us altogether. “We are waiting for the committee,” Pugatchov remarked, to explain the delay in the proceedings. “What a pleasure!” he rubbed his hands, laughing. “We have a woman to-day.” “Oh, yes,” he added, turning to us all, “you can write letters home and ask that your bodies be sent there for burial, if you wish. Or you can ask for similar favours.” The suspense of waiting was as cruel as anything else about the place. Every officer’s face wore an expression of implacable hatred for that brute of a man, Pugatchov. Never have I seen a more bloodthirsty scoundrel. I did not think that such a man was to be found in Russia. The waiting wore me out soon and I fell again on my knees, praying to the little icon, and crying to Heaven: “God, when have I sinned to earn such a death? Why should I die like a dog, without burial, without a priest, with no funeral? And who will take care of my mother? She will expire when she learns of my end.” The Bolshevik soldiers burst out laughing. My pleading appealed to their sense of humour. They joked and made merry. “Don’t cry, my child,” the General bent over me, patting me. “They are savages. Their hearts are of stone. They would not even let us receive the last sacrament. Let us die like heroes, nevertheless.”